Broken
by Capra hircus
Summary: Oneshot. “I’m broken,” you say, and you expect me to yell, to deny it. Mild slash


**Author's Note**: This IS a one-shot, and will remain that way no matter what. Don't ask, please. It has the completed feel to me, and when something has the completed feel, it's DONE. On another note, this came to me in the form of one word and drew me to my notebook, where I sometimes have the urge to write things because sometimes the paper is better for the tale to unfold on. It just went from there. This was done in one sitting and took...no more than two hours, I'd say, though that's probably drawing it long because I'm horrible at managing time. I doubt it was an hour, but if I'm wrong...Well, let's stick with two. For once, I'm pleased with how it came out. I love the way it feels, for whatever reason. Sometimes repetative words will work wonders. Or at least, I think so. Mmm. Mild slash. Now read.

Broken

Broken.

It's what you say to me, when I demand for answers. "I'm broken," you say, and you expect me to yell, to deny it. To call you a liar, to argue simply for the sake of arguing. Because that's what we do. We argue. Because I'm never to agree with you; God forbid I allow myself to call you right. And so you expect me to storm and shout, perhaps call you pathetic and a million other insults, half of which you're sure I'll make up on the spot. You expect me to lash out, to strike when my words have no effect. Expect me to try to break you.

And then, of course, you'll remind me. "Ah, but Zim—you can't break what is already broken." Because you know I'll try. It's what I do. Perhaps you hope I'll try anyway, as you know me to do; you know I don't listen to reason. Maybe you wish for me to try anyway, to break the body of a broken spirit. Just so that you don't have to feel that broken anymore.

And if I realize this, you know, I'll stop. Because I can't help you. I don't do that. You expect I'll yell again, then. Tell you how weak you are, how stupid and worthless and vile—all the horrible things about you I can think of, and you know there are many. And then I'll say you're not worth my time, never an admirable opponent for thinking such thoughts. You won't admit to it aloud, perhaps, but deep down you'll agree with everything I say. You almost want to hear it, though if I was to notice and point it out, you'd deny it fully. "Why would I want that?" you'll say, and you'll look at me like I'm crazy, just as everyone thinks you to be. But you do want it, and I'll know.

Because you're broken.

Then, you'll hope, I might get so furious with you that I go ahead and try to break you again. And I will, because I'm easily frustrated and you know when I'm frustrated I will be rash. This time, though, I won't stop. Or if I do, it'll be too late, because my fury makes me blind and you know I can't relent then. And then I'll come to my senses, and I'll see you and what I've done. I won't regret it, because it is not in me to regret. There is no feeling of remorse in my soul, and you know it. Instead, I'll get angry. It's what I revert to when I don't know what to do or what else to feel. And I'll spit out your name, in that way that you act like doesn't bother you, but really hurts you every time, more than any physical wound I could ever give you. Then I'll insult you some more, tell you to get up—maybe throw in some kicks for good measure. But you won't get up, and it'll stop me. I'll get confused. You know I hate to look like I don't know what I'm doing, so that won't last long. I'll get angry again. You see it happen so much, it won't even shock you, even when you're struggling for breath—but that's only a figure of speech, because you won't want to breathe anymore. I don't know that, because I'm dense and you know it. Rage makes me that way.

I'll say some more hurtful things, only because I don't know what else to do. You're used to it by now, but it still stings from time to time. You'll sting now. And you'll open your mouth to speak, because you feel your time drawing near. Because I'm stronger than I look, and because you didn't fight back. I'll see it and it'll get me angry again, though this time I won't even know why, and I'll lash out at you again. And you'll cough something out as I do, but I won't hear because I'm too loud when I hurt you, and you'll be secretly glad because it would have changed things. Things aren't supposed to change with us. Then the hurt will go away and you'll gasp, and then you won't make noises anymore.

I won't notice at first, you know, because I'll be too caught up in my rage. Then I'll start to realize you're not moving any longer, and I'll stop. And then I'll call your name, but it won't be hateful like before. Just surprised. And then, slowly, it'll dawn on me, and I'll nudge you to make sure. When you don't move, you don't know what will happen. Maybe I'll cackle, rejoice. Maybe I'll blink and go about life as if nothing had ever happened, perhaps try to take over the world and succeed. It doesn't really matter.

Because you're broken.

And I hear it all in the way you say, "I'm broken", and I don't do anything. I can also see your eyes, and I don't do anything because I can see INTO them, and eyes can't lie like words can. And I gaze into your eyes, and I see a broken child, the child that my greatest nemesis always was all along. And I don't do any of what you expect me to do.

Because eyes don't lie, and you're broken.

It hit you hard; I can see that now. I never thought you really cared for them… But then, I'm usually wrong, as you know. You cared and now you don't have them anymore, and it took the Dib I knew and it broke him. But you were never that strong to begin with, as you know. You just had to act that way, around me, so that I'd never see the weaker side and know I could win.

I can see it now; it's all of you.

But you don't care now, because they're gone and there's no one else to pretend they care now. And you're alone and you're broken and you don't see the point in caring anymore. You want me to hurt you, because it's the only way I'll help, and hurting you is what I do. But…

I don't do anything.

Because I can see into your eyes and into your soul and I don't WANT to hurt you. But not because I don't want to help. You're broken and you want me to shout and deny it…but I won't, because you are. I can see it in your eyes, and eyes don't lie, and suddenly I don't WANT to hurt you anymore.

And instead I take your hand, and it's all in the way you said, "I'm broken" that makes it clear you weren't expecting that. And your eyes go wide and _I_ know it's not out of fear that I'll hurt you, because it's all in the way I say, "I know" that makes it clear I don't want to hurt you anymore. And your eyes are wide and asking me why and it's because…

Because…

I've only just realized.

…God, you look so beautiful when you're broken.

FIN


End file.
